Good Things Come In Pairs
by Marie-Constance Quesnet
Summary: All Autor needs is to study in the library, uninterrupted. Unfortunately for him, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of time must be in want of a girlfriend.
1. Pique I

Someone was drumming their fingers on Autor's table, near his book. She had been doing it for at least twenty minutes, and had moved three chairs closer to him in that time.

Autor nearly sighed. He had an itch in his shoulder, but he couldn't reach for it because that would break the illusion that he was immobile. But there was no escaping her rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-a. _Augh! It doesn't even follow a regular rhythm! _

He turned a page. She loomed ever closer, the fingers of her free hand out-stretched.

"What," he whispered, not looking up from his text, "do you want."

"I want a date," she said, and he could hear her smiling at him.

Autor whipped his head up. He felt heat bloom in his neck from the pulled muscle. "_What_?" he rasped quietly.

"A date," she said, grinning. He recognized her at once as one of Ahiru's insufferable friends. The pink-haired one. Oh, she didn't remember the duck-girl, of course, but that wasn't relevant to why she was sitting here, leaning into his personal space.

"No," he said flatly, shutting his book. "I refuse."

"I figured you would," she said.

He stood, and adjusted his glasses. "Then why did you ask?"

"Because I figured I could convince you," she said, and her grin sharpened.

_A challenge? Interesting. _He chuckled darkly. "Oh, I doubt that."

She stood abruptly. He couldn't help but notice how skinny her legs were-and how the school uniform flared out at the top to accentuate that fact. _Ballerinas_, he thought. _Tch._

Then his eyes widened. From underneath the table, she'd produced a French horn. With a saucy smile, she opened her mouth to take a breath… only to have him clamp a hand over her lips and wrap an arm around her waist, pinning the horn between them.

"I'm impressed," he said, trying to ignore the way she flushed under his touch. Or from his words. _Or lack of breath, or whatever other many reasons silly girls happen to go red in the face. _"I didn't think you'd have it in you to threaten me. You're going to bring that to the library until I say yes, aren't you?"

She nodded, and he sighed, sagging.

"Okay," he said eventually, bowing his head. _Candy canes? _he thought. _What a strange smell for a girl. _"One date. Just one."

Her lips curved into a smile under his palm, and he tore his hands away. _Ew, _he thought. _I hope she didn't spit on me._

"Good. I'm Pique, by the way," she said, and giggled. "You're to meet me at Ebine's tomorrow at three. And Autor?"

"Yes?" he snapped, digging his fingers into the edge of his table.

"Dress nicely," she said, sashaying away, leaving him to glare at her retreating back.


	2. Pique II

Autor checked his watch again. Pique was late. He knew she was going to be late because women never show up on time when they can be late, and, here she was, _late_, and confirming all of his prior suspicions.

"Hey!" she said, bounding up the hill and waving at him. He noticed she was wearing something different: sensible shoes.

"You said three p.m.," he said, irritable.

She seized his wrist to look at his watch, and he recoiled against her shockingly strong grip. "It's two after," she said, scoffing.

He opened his mouth to get a word in before she spoke again, but found he didn't have much to say.

"You didn't dress up at all," she said, poking her bottom lip out.

Autor wanted to poke it back into place. "The school uniform is an all-purpose garment suitable for—"

Pique interrupted him with a groan. "No, it's not," she said, placing a hand on her hip. Gold bracelets clanged together on her wrist, drawing his attention. He noticed a pale green skirt clung to her legs. Her top was a billowy white blouse with ruffles at the neckline. Her hair was… elaborate.

Then he looked at her face. Her gaze made his skin crawl; she seemed to be assessing him. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"I don't see the point of it, no," he said, fidgeting.

"Okay," she said, and frowned again. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," he said, stiffening. _Now what?_

"Are you hungry?" she asked, tilting her head.

"No," he said.

"Well, if you were hungry, what would you eat?" she asked, frowning.

"… Food?"

To his surprise, she took him by the forearms and shook him. "Are you always this difficult to talk to?"

Autor smiled at her, and he caught the sound of her breath hitching. "You tell me. You're the one who wanted to go out."

She punched him in the arm.

"Ow," he said, glaring at her as he disengaged from her grip. "Are bruises typical on a date with you?"

Pique stared at the ground. He noticed her fingers clench and steadied himself for another punch. "Look, I'm sorry," she said, and he began cataloging the different pitches of her throaty voice. _Interesting_, he thought. _It's deeper than most girls'._

He had more chances to compare and contrast when she started ranting. "You're just so… augh! You've never been on a date before, have you?"

"Apology accepted," he sniffed, and placed a hand on his hip. "And no, I haven't. So, now what?"

"Well, you can compliment my hair or something," she said, and cocked her head to the side. Ringlets which he hadn't noticed before started bouncing.

He blinked rapidly. "Wait, what?"

"Autor," she said, sighing, "you have to learn how to properly treat girls. Compliment me. Offer to get me a drink. If you ever want to go out again, with anyone, this is what you do."

"But… I'm going out with you right now," he said, a bit confused as to how that happened in the first place. _Ah, right, the French horn problem,_ he thought, frowning. He didn't much like the phrase 'going out,' either. It didn't sound like a temporary, threatened-date. It sounded more permanent. Committed.

"Um," she said, and coughed. "Yeah, about that… Let's call this a practice date."

_I don't know if I like the sound of that_, he thought, and then gasped as she jerked him forward by the wrist. "Pique, wait. Where are you dragging me to? Pique!"

She pushed the door to Ebine's open and cheerfully called out for two milkshakes. Still dragging Autor behind her, she found a small table near a window.

"Milkshakes? This is your brilliant plan?" Autor asked, wrinkling his nose.

Pique rolled her eyes. "Do you have a better idea?" she asked, and then grinned wickedly. "We could take you shopping for a better outfit."

"Absolutely not," he snapped, and shook his hand out of hers as they sat down.

"So, what are you into?" she said, smiling as she cupped her chin in her hands. Autor thought she looked like a cat about to pounce. "You're a music student and you like reading… but why are you in the library all the time, really?"

Autor leaned back, evaluating her. "I'm planning to conquer the world."

She laughed, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Wait," she said at his baleful look. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Of course I am," he said. "There's more than one way to pluck a duck."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," Pique said hesitantly. "But how would you do it?"

"Well, there are a great many options available," he started, adjusting his glasses. "You can go with a financial coup, supernatural powers, diplomacy, threat of biological warfare, or even…"

It was only when he noticed that the ice cream in front of him had long since melted and that the sun was dipping down did he see that Pique was a bit… well, her head was lowered. Clearly he'd lost her interest somewhere.

He did the only reasonable thing that came to mind: poked her in the head. "Wake up. We should get you home before dark."

"Yeah," Pique said, sounding a bit resigned.

The walk back to the girls' dormitories was mercifully quiet, but Autor couldn't help but notice that Pique looked downcast. His fingers brushed the air near her head. "Your hair," he started, and then hesitated.

"Yes?" she said, stepping closer.

He stiffened. _She smells of candy canes,_ he thought. _A whole girl made of peppermint. Who knew. Peppermint… and nothing like Rue._

"Elaborate," he said to the girl in front of him. "Your hair is elaborate."

Pique smiled at him, and he couldn't tell if she was going to laugh or not. He was a bit surprised-and more than a bit unsettled-when she scrubbed away tears, instead. She was still smiling as she patted the bruises on his arm. "Thank you for the compliment, Autor."

"Good night, Pique," he said, itching to get back to the library, where things were familiar and nothing punched you and certainly nothing cried when you tried to tell them that they were pretty.

"Good night, Autor," she said and stepped into the gate leading to the girls' dorms.

He didn't call out after her.


	3. Pique III: Interlude

"I mean, I actually do like him," Pique said, sipping her sweetened tea. "Autor's really cute, but I just can't see it working right now, you know?"

Lille cupped her chin in her hands and leaned forward with a toothy grin. "So you didn't string him along and then crush him with secret knowledge of multiple affairs after fostering paralyzing resentment for years!? How saaad!"

Pique snorted at her friend. "No, I let him down gently. Sort of. Anyway, that's not the point."

She sighed wistfully, and continued. "He's super smart, but not in the ways I need him to be. And he's so frustrating!"

The other girl laughed. "What pitiful subjects did he speak about?"

"Oh!" Pique said. "He talked about conquering the world! That was really awkward."

Lille's smile vanished, replaced by a cold look Pique hadn't seen often. "Tell me more."


	4. Malen I

Autor tilted his head at the trembling girl in front of him. She was bolder than she looked-she'd nearly knocked him to the ground a moment ago. Oh, she tried to make it look like it was an accident, but he knew when someone was pulling a punch.

And she knew that he knew, so she bit her lip and trembled.

"Are you all right?" he asked, trying to get a better look at her face from under her bowed head. She had glasses, he noticed. And a blush darker than Pique's, likely because her skin was paler.

"Yes," she squeaked, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "I'm fine."

Autor was more than a bit relieved. He'd had to catch her, and given how skinny she was-_how skinny they all are! Not a single girl in this school is healthy_-he hoped she didn't bruise easily.

He nodded at her, keeping her pinned with a critical gaze. "Then, out with it. Why did you bump into me?"

"I-I want to draw you!" she blurted out, and buried her face in her hands with a terrified, "eep!"

Autor was stymied. "What?"

"Please," she said. "Just for an hour. I'll do anything, I'll even-"

"That's not necessary," he said, and held up a hand. _I don't have to do this,_ he argued with himself. _She's not bold enough to threaten me with a French horn, but she was bold enough to ask in a manner that was somewhat straightforward._

"One hour," he said, already feeling a headache poking at him.

"Thank you!" she said, bowing. Her smile bloomed, lighting up her face along with her rose-tinted cheeks. "Thank you so much!"

Autor sighed. _Girls._


	5. Malen II

Finding a position that Malen was comfortable with was more difficult than Autor thought it would be. He was a little bit overwhelmed by her: a light touch here, a tilting of his head at a new angle there, her breath curling in his ear, her fingers lacing his together.

"Now," Malen said, smiling as she took up her canvas and charcoal. "I'm ready. Are you all right?"

"Not really," he said, wrist bent at an angle he just wasn't used to.

"Oh," she said, and bit her lip again. "I'm sorry. I'll go as fast as I can."

Despite the way her fingers flew over the page, the idea of being a model quickly lost what little appeal it had for Autor. He soon grew bored, and couldn't help his wandering gaze. Malen was almost the opposite of Pique. While both girls were quite pretty, Malen was the paler and more mousy of the two. Her sooty fingers were long and thin and graceful, while the girl herself was not, which he found interesting.

Autor noticed that she kept worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Wincing, he tried to look away, but the action kept drawing his eye.

"Stay still," Malen chided gently, smiling.

"Sorry," Autor said, and took his glasses off to rub at his face. Slumping a little, he allowed some of the muscles in his shoulders to unwind a bit. His back was always a tapestry of knots due to his hunched posture. Now he couldn't resist lowering his head to release some of the pain in his shoulders.

"Oh," Malen whispered reverently, and he shivered at the sound. "Stay like that."

"Like what?" he asked, and lifted his head.

"Just… loose," she said, and made a vague hand gesture.

Then she positioned him again. When she was done, he was much more comfortable than he had been at the start. Almost enough to fall asleep… except that she kept peeking up over her canvas at him, and biting her lip.

Autor tried to ignore it. He really did. He stared at her but focused on the dust motes floating around. He shifted minutely. He swallowed multiple times. He tried to listen for anything other than the silence in this room.

But she was still chewing on her stupid lip and he hated that because it meant she was nervous or stressed over something and he only knew that because his mother chewed through her own flesh, over and over, scraping at the skin until it bled…

"Don't," Autor said softly, pressing his fingertip against the painter's mouth. He wasn't aware he'd crossed to her until he was there, curled over her, breathing her in. "You'll hurt yourself."

"Oh," she whispered again, eyes wide. Neither moved, until Malen tilted her head up, pressing her mouth against his finger.

"I think our time might be up," Autor said quietly, and brushed her jaw with his thumb as he drew back. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Yes," she said, and Autor had the odd impression that she said that and meant it, but that 'no' also applied.

He inspected her artwork, and had to admit that he was impressed. There were a few basic sketches of him, skeletons really, but one or two which really shone. He wasn't sure what to think; he'd very rarely seen a picture of himself, and never anything like this.

The next photo to catch his eye stopped his breath. "Can I have this?"

Malen leaned closer to him, and looked over the drawing of a ballerina _en pointe_. "You may," she said. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," he said softly, and didn't notice the way Malen's face fell. "Her name is Rue."

"I see," she said, shrinking. Then she adjusted her glasses, brightening. "Well, I had fun today. Did you? You'll have to model for me again sometime."

"Perhaps," he said, ignoring the way hand trembled when it held Rue's. "Perhaps I will," he said, and meant it, but 'no' also applied.


	6. Freya I

Autor sneezed. He always did around the girl who almost glowed with pollen. She was taller than he was, and more graceful, and the more time he spent in her presence, the more he feared he may step on her feet. Unfortunately, once he stumbled upon her spinning around in her own personal garden, he found himself rooted to the earth.

He sneezed again, and she smiled at him. "Pardon me," he said solemnly. "I was just passing thr-"

"I've been meaning to ask you this for a while," she said, holding out her watering can. "Do you know Tchaikovsky's _Waltz of the Flowers_?"

"Of course I do," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I am a music student. Why, I even-"

Freya interrupted him again with a spate of light laughter, and he bristled even more. "Can you dance, then?"

The boy stiffened. "Yes. We all can. You know that."

She raised a brow. "Well? _Do_ you dance?"

"I-" he started, and had to stop to reorient himself. "I haven't yet found a suitable dance partner. Or, rather, there was... No. The answer to your question is, no, I don't dance."

Setting her water can aside, Freya held out her hand. "Did you want to pretend that you do?"

"What?" he said, blinking owlishly at her. He raised a hand, as if to shield himself. "That doesn't make any sense."

She laughed at him again, and he thought she sounded oddly like wind blowing through the trees. "You're always watching us so wistfully when you play the piano during our class. I thought you might like to dance yourself, sometime.

"I won't force you," she continued, smiling, and his belly twisted. "You can even close your eyes, if you want."

Autor stepped forward, keeping his gaze locked to hers. "No. It still wouldn't be the same."

He gently took her hand and curled his fingers around her hip. At first, he did step on her feet, but as the music swelled in his head, so did his confidence, and soon he led them down to garden paths in the steps of the Quadrille. Then, the Scotch Reel. The Mazurka, the Deutsche, and the LÄndler. Finally, the ever-scandalous waltz.

But no ballet. _Never_ ballet.

Nearing the end of his stamina, Autor dipped her down-and held her there. The girl's eyes were closed, and he thought she looked a little too at ease, with his hand splayed on her lower back. _What am I doing here, again?_

"What was she like?" Freya mused, suspended.

"Gardenias," he said, automatically. His arms trembled, and he marveled that he didn't drop her. "She smelled of gardenias."

"Oh?" she asked quietly, out of breath. "And me?"

Autor tilted his head and curled over her, nearly pressing his nose against her neck. "Not that."

Freya smiled as she opened her eyes. "Then I'll not keep you. You had some place to be, didn't you?"

The boy nodded and raised her up. The girl curtsied and, after slowly spinning away from him, returned to her flowers, watering the gardenias and not-gardenias alike.


	7. Freya & Malen: Interlude

"Be careful," Malen squeaked. "I know you're a dancer, but do you really have to spin near the paints? And for goodness' sake, you really should stay still!"

The ballerina giggled, holding out her hands. "Ah, my dear painter, how are we ever to work together when only one of us is ever free to move?"

Freya's pointe work was flawless, until she saw the figure featured in a neat pile of charcoal drawings. She stumbled, and her smile wilted. "Oh?" she asked softly, holding up a picture of the music student who had led her in a waltz of flowers. "Do you know him, Malen?"

"He's just a boy," Malen said, and flushed. Her charcoal skittered across the page she was working on.

"Ah," Freya said, and winked. "That he is. But he's a sweet one."

"He is," Malen agreed cautiously, trying not to squirm or-even worse!-sigh. She went to bite her lip, but startled herself out of the impulse. Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her lips burn where his finger had pressed.

The dancer gently straightened out the corner of the drawing. Autor was captured loosely, almost relaxed, with a careful hand and large strokes of black. Freya couldn't ever remember seeing him other than tense, except when he'd held her. "Do you ever wonder if—"

"No," Malen said, irritably.

And the dancer laughed. "Let's be friends, Malen."

The painter's jaw dropped, and she shook her head. "Okay. But you'll have to stay still, at least for today."

Freya giggled again, and lay the parchment down.


End file.
